


Worth The Calories

by elderberrymanilow



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, gbbo au, geralt speaks in complete sentences, in the sense that its competitors to friends to lovers, no humans or monsters, only pastries and pies, so ooc ig
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29183274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderberrymanilow/pseuds/elderberrymanilow
Summary: When Jaskier, drunk and impulsive, applied to be on the next series of The Great British Bake Off, it was only as a joke.Mostly.When he was stood behind a seafoam counter while Noel Fielding asked about his earrings, it started to feel a little less funny.Or: Jaskier winds up on Bake Off and placed behind a tall, broody baker with beautiful hair. Panicked pining ensues.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 98





	1. The Trials & Tribulations of A Stodgy Sponge (AKA: Cake Week)

When Jaskier, drunk and impulsive, applied to be on the next series of The Great British Bake Off, it was only as a joke.

Mostly.

When he was stood behind a seafoam counter while Noel Fielding asked about his earrings, it started to feel a little less funny.

It wasn't that Jaskier didn't like Bake Off. He watched it every week with his flatmate, in fact. It wasn't an issue of interest...

It was just that Jaskier was horrible at baking. 

Well, horrible was a strong word. Jaskier simply never tried to bake. Never saw a reason to after he became an independent adult living in the city. He, instead, lived vicariously through past contestants.

Being a spectator? Fine, GREAT even. Jaskier loved watching other people work while he stood back and judged them for it. That's why he watched political debates, rugby matches, and reality television. That doesn't mean that he himself WANTS to be a politician, or a jock, or a talentless ingenue.  
... Well, he didn't want to be a politician or a jock, anyway.

No matter how fanciful and unrealistic his daydreams typically were, Jaskier never truly expected to make it through the first screening process. 

And yet, here he was, with a nosy camera operator seemingly very interested in his cake batter. Which Jaskier was fairly certain shouldn't be that texture. 

The UK's best amatuer bakers.

Yeah, right. 

As surprised as he was to be here, Jaskier wasn't naive. 

There were only two options he deemed plausible for his acceptance.

The first option was that his dazzling personality caught a producer's eye and they needed to fill their "cliche contestant" quota. Perhaps they saw in him the potential for a babyfaced apprentice, an egotistical heartbreaker, a drama-seeking neer-do-well, or some combination thereof. 

The second, much more plausible option was that the showrunners needed to secure an early-out. 

As Jaskier demurely watches his mixture bubble in its hellish hole of an oven, he rather thinks they've succeeded. 

The signature task of the week is an elevated Madeira cake, something Jaskier had only heard referenced a handful of times. He figured, since most British cakes are flavored with some sort of citrus, it'd be a safe bet to turn to booze. Jaskier had planned on flavoring it with limoncello and strawberries, bringing his favorite summer cocktail to the posh and pastel tent. 

"Planned" is the operative word here.

His limoncello didn't combine properly with the batter, his strawberries sunk to the bottom, and he mistakenly used plain flour instead of the self-rising variant. 

All in all, this cake was a bigger failure than he was to his parents after dropping out of university. 

Jaskier wasn't even all that bothered about his disaster until Paul and Prue began their rounds of tasting and judging. 

A terrifying woman with black hair and even blacker eyeshadow had wary success with a cinnamon-raisin Madeira.

A young girl with a blinding smile, definitely the 'hopeful student' of the season, presented a coconut-pineapple cake that Prue pursed her lips at. 

The judges traveled the length of the tent before walking towards Jaskier's workbench. He wondered, for a moment, if it was too late for him to not show up for filming. 

Paul's steely-blue eyes pierced Jaskier's fragile facade of confidence as he made a show of pressing the sorry excuse for cake between his fingertips. 

"Stodgy, Julian," he admonished as if Jaskier was delusional enough not to notice the undesirable texture of his monstrous bake. 

But it was fine, he reasoned with himself. They wanted an early-out, so he was going to give them one. 

In fact, it really WAS fine until this very moment, after the baker in front of him turned to look at Jaskier's cake with barely-veiled disdain. 

And Jaskier knows, but hey. 

"I'm sorry, is there an issue?" he bites, defensive even after his failure. 

The upsettingly handsome stranger slowly, purposefully trails his eyes from Jaskier's face to his Madeira.

"It seems that the issue lies at your station, not mine," he responds after a torturous beat of silence. 

Jaskier could do sod all but gape at the man. The absolute nerve! Where was the comradery, the decorum?

"Oh, and who are you to determine that, exactly?" 

"I'm--"

"He's the guy that got a Hollywood handshake on the first bake," Cinnamon-raisin lady unhelpfully adds from her seat across the aisle from them. 

The upsettingly handsome stranger only offers a subsequent shrug before facing forward once more. 

Bastard. 

\------------------------------

The bastard (Geralt, he now knew his name was) comes first in the technical. 

Jaskier is less than surprised.

What does fully surprise him, as well as most of the cast, is Jaskier's placement. He doesn't come last. 

No, no, no. 

Jaskier comes fourth, no doubt due in part to his and the technical's shared Polish descent. 

His mother had requested his assistance for the occasional Kolacz many-a-time over the years. 

Even the upsettingly handsome no-longer-stranger turned to him with a raised eyebrow, an almost appraising look on his stoic face. Jaskier wants to slap it off him. After the filming has been cut, Geralt wanders over, falsely disinterested, while Jaskier silently fumes. 

"Hey, maybe you won't be the first one out." Geralt mutters, not even bothering to properly look at him. Jaskier doesn't even have the opportunity for a rebuttal before the man wanders off once more. 

It's infuriating.

\------------------------------

Before, this might've been a joke to Jaskier. But now?

Now it's war. 

The minute Jaskier returned to his flat for the night, he'd began practicing, reworking, and perfecting his showstopper for the next day. He wasn't going to be the first one eliminated, no, no, no. 

Jaskier wouldn't give Geralt the satisfaction. Returning to the tent was no less outlandish than his first arrival, though there was an added tension this time as Jaskier met Geralt's eye on the cobblestone walkway.  
In an effort to save face, Jaskier attempts to maintain an unassuming expression until Geralt apparently loses interest and turns back towards Yennefer. (who Jaskier still lovingly thought of as "Cinnamon-raisin lady in his head, thank you very much.)  
In an almost resigned manner, Jaskier feels a bit of stress relieve itself from his shoulders as he settles behind his seafoam bench for, perhaps, the final time. 

The brief was a simple and vague one. 

A two-tiered cake, any flavor the bakers so choose, inspired by a historical figure. 

The fact that Jaskier managed to mix a batter that wasn't separated and possessed was already a small miracle, in his book. All of his cake pans survive their journey to hell and Jaskier's dear past of art classes come in handy as he ices and pipes, attaches his two semispherical cakes, settles the stupid thing semi-safely onto his square base, and models a small David Bowie to sit atop his now red-frosted circle, indicative of Mars. Jaskier's pretty damn proud of the thing, actually. It's a far cry from his dreaded Madeira. 

Noel and Matt call time before Jaskier can add his luster dust, but he can't find it in himself to be upset when Geralt glances back and raises his eyebrows in unconcealed shock. And Jaskier can't lie, he's pretty damn proud of that too. 

He actually pays attention to Geralt's critiques this time around, now that he's hyperaware of every move the gentle giant makes. 

Geralt's showstopper is... decidedly not what Jaskier would've expected from his brief introduction to the brute. 

It was, clear as day, inspired by Marie Antoinette, all deliberately delicate and fancily frilled, with a lacey, white-chocolate cage skirt covering the top tier. 

It's beautiful. 

Jaskier's furious. 

He does not, sadly, have much of a chance to seethe about it before producers inform him he's the next baker up. 

For the first time in nearly a decade, Jaskier prays as he brings his showstopper up to the judging table. It proves itself unnecessary, as the stabilizing rod holds the planet up steady, but he figured it's better safe than sorry. He just knows that Geralt would be so pleased to see him crumble now. Uh-uh, absolutely not. 

There was a moment of nothing. No reactions, no noises, nothing. At that moment, Jaskier was convinced he'd mucked the whole cake up and the judges were deciding how to tell him he should leave. 

But then, at last, "Julian, this looks lovely. Great shine on that mirror glaze." Jaskier always did love Prue best.

"Looks wonderful, instantly recognizable. But style means nothing if it doesn't have substance. How does it taste?" Jaskier always did love Paul least.

'Well, you're about to find out, aren't you?' Jaskier thought to himself but dutifully remains silent as the pair cuts into his chocolate-orange planet and dig their daunting forks into the slice. 

Jaskier, in turn, digs his hands into the pockets of his apron as the judges chewed, contemplatively, until Prue offers him some sweet repose.

"The orange blossom comes through beautifully, actually. I'd be keener on it if you'd added a bit of coffee or another element to enhance the chocolate flavor as well." It's a fair critique and one that, should Jaskier stay, he'll surely file away for future use.

"But the texture is spot on. A wild improvement." Jaskier releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding in at Paul's praise. At least he's redeemed himself and won't go down in Bake Off history as the sorry, ever-stodgy cake maker. 

The pair release Jaskier and suddenly there's Geralt, watching him meander back to his counter, staring far too intently at the miniature Bowie on Jaskier's tray as if it'd personally offended him. When the amber eyes travel higher, to his face, Jaskier smirks and shrugs, mockingly, before turning his attention back to the judges and their current victim, just in time to see Prue pull a piece of parchment out of the cake. 

It isn't until the whole lot's sat on the line of stools that Jaskier realizes he has a real shot of staying. 

It isn't until Geralt is announced as Star Baker that Jaskier realizes he just has to stay. 

As Noel goes on with his elimination speech, Jaskier feels more than one pair of eyes on him. His ears start ringing when Noel does not, in fact, conclude that speech with his name. 

Hugs are given, backs are patted, and the camera shots pan wide as the first week comes to an end, unaccompanied by the end of Jaskier's career in the tent.

As the pomp and fanfare fade, Jaskier scans the small crowd for Geralt, only to find the man already looking in his direction. He offers a hand. They shake. There's a moment of genuine peace and contentment. 

"You know Marie Antoinette never actually said 'let them eat cake', right?" Geralt scoffs and drags his hand away at Jaskier's blatant disrespect for his showstopper. When he only cackles in response, Geralt scowls and turns to leave. He takes all but three steps before pausing and looking back at Jaskier. 

"I'll see you next week."


	2. The Nuances of European Geography (AKA: Biscuit Week)

When Jaskier first moved in with Triss, it was out of both necessity and want.

They were both broke uni students when they met, bonding over part-time jobs that left their pockets light and their minds uninspired. 

This fulfills the necessity. 

They were also co-presidents of the Undead Poet’s Society, a pretentious, highly-exclusive school club for only the most passionate of pansies. Along with being the founders, they were also the only official members of said society. Meeting took the form of unnecessary monologues performed over bottles of kirsch and next-morning trips to the cheapest Pret-A-Manger to soak up their drunken, dramatic escapades. 

This fulfills the want.

Needless to say, Triss has seen Jaskier make many, many mistakes throughout their friendship. But none have been quite as idiotic as learning how to bake out of spite. The night before, when Jaskier had stayed up to ungodly hours baking cake after cake, Triss had been sympathetic, happy to tuck into every attempt to give feedback with her mouth full. Today, though, was quite a different story. 

“You what?” her voice cracks over the phone as Jaskier clutches at a damp washcloth.

“Triss, I promise, I’ll clean it up, you’ll never even know it hap--”

“How, exactly, does someone get icing on the ceiling?”  
A beat passes as Jaskier drums his fingers against the sticky countertop.

“The specifics aren’t as notable as you’d think, really. An unaccompanied stand mixer, an unlatched locking mechanism, a… distracted baker. I just needed to get the right consistency on this buttercream, and I was worried I wouldn’t get the biscuits out of the oven in time, and-- ”

“Wait a minute.” Jaskier stops his mopping at the exasperated tone of Triss’s voice.  
“You’re practicing for Bake Off?” The sheepish silence on Jaskier’s end is answer enough.  
“Jas, it’s Tuesday. Why are you already practicing?”

Why was he practicing? 

Because he had a resounding amount of baking skills to catch up on if he was going to prove to Paul and Prue and fucking Geralt that, even after a rocky first week, Jaskier is competition. 

“This jodenkoek showstopper is killing me, Triss. I’m already so far behind, I need to perfect this. How else is Ger--”

“Oh my good graces, you are not still obsessing over Geralt. You’ve seen him twice. You’ve had about 70% of a conversation with the guy. You cannot keep burning yourself out because you’ve created some narrative in your head that Geralt is your arch-nemesis. D’you know what? I bet he’s a lovely man. And, hey, maybe by the end of all this, he’ll be able to keep a fucking kitchenette clean.” A dial-tone soon follows, leaving Jaskier alone with his miserable mess and a blooming spot of guilt. 

\------------------------------

Jaskier hates when Triss is right. 

Like, he really hates when Triss is right.

He was fully prepared to waltz into the tent and keep up this charade of a rivalry with Geralt.  
But the man seemed to have other plans for them when, halfway through the signature, he turns back to Jaskier’s station with a contemplative look on his face. And Jaskier doesn’t know what he could possibly be brooding about, his biscuits are already in the goddamn oven.

“You mentioned last week that you’re Polish.” 

On the list of things Jaskier had expected Geralt to say, that wasn’t even in the top eight. 

“Is that a question?” he raises an eyebrow, wiping down his station just to keep his hands occupied.

“...No.” Geralt eventually responds, a look of trepidation slowly making its way onto his face.  
“Do you know how to pronounce what we’re making?” he continues, resolutely. 

And, well, that gives Jaskier pause. 

“Vaniljekvanse is from Denmark, Geralt.”

“Well, yes, I know that, but… are Scandinavian and Slavic languages all that different?”

Jaskier just wishes his father were here to hear that hot take. 

“Geralt.” he sighs, looking up at the man with a horrified expression.  
“Geralt, Geralt, Geralt… Germany may separate Poland and Denmark, but Polish is absolutely not a Germanic language.” Jaskier says, pleadingly.  
Geralt looks at him, blankly.

“And yet, you still know how to pronounce Vanyi... Vane… the biscuits.” 

Jaskier opens his mouth to reply, only to then realize the camera crew’s vested interest in their banter.

Oh, god, they’re bantering! Rivals don’t banter!

Jaskier clears his throat and turns his attention back to tidying his countertop.  
Geralt continues watching him for a minute before grunting and facing his workspace.  
Knowledge of pronunciation proves irrelevant soon after when they both receive glowing reviews for their batches of Vaniljekvanse.

\------------------------------

When you’re a Bake Off spectator, you love when contestants fuck up. When you’re that contestant, you hate it. 

And Jaskier has royally fucked up. 

The technical started off alright, Matt and Noel doing their best to announce Custard Creams in a way that seemed even somewhat exciting.  
Jaskier had even felt a bit confident as he measured out his best guesstimates for the measurements. But when he went to combine the butter and the sugar, he, naturally, grabbed the first small bowl of white he saw and mistakenly added the icing sugar instead of the caster sugar. Immediately, he realizes his mistake and drops his head into his hands with a groan, alerting the crew to the budding catastrophe in his food processor.

“Oh, no, Julian. What’s happened?” Noel asks as he saunters up with cameras in tow. Jaskier sighs and presses himself up to at least look Noel in the eye as he laments his stupidity. 

“Well, my dear lad, Noel, I’ve just used my icing sugar where my caster sugar’s meant to be used. The textures of the filling and the biscuit itself are gonna be dreadful, just dreadful.” he marinates in Noel’s halfhearted condolences for a minute before pausing, an idea forming in his head. “Unless…. Oh, scurry off now, Noel, I think I might be able to save this bake, yet.” 

And, honestly, a moment of dramatics is just what the brain needs to rejuvenate itself.

Jaskier continues with his dough, doing his very best to beat some extra air into it before quickly baking it off with his fingers crossed. 

Now, Jaskier knows he can be a right dumbass, but this is the closest he’ll ever get to a stroke of genius: he cleans out his processor, takes his caster sugar, and blitzes it. A fine powder forms, which he creams with his butter, custard powder, and vanilla to create his custard cream filling. 

“You alright over there, Jules?” the lovely lady behind him, Cirilla, asks.

“Why, yes, I actually think I will be.” he shoots her a small, hopeful smile, ignoring the disbelieving hum coming from the station in front of him. His biscuits are a bit blonder and flatter than he’d ideally like them, but, considering how much worse they could’ve turned out, he feels rather lucky.  
He feels even luckier when Paul and Prue taste his clandestine contributions and say that, overall, they’re delicious. 

Jaskier, miraculously, comes fourth once again, just behind Geralt who’s dropped to third this week. The aforementioned bronze-level-finisher approaches Jaskier directly this time around, a determined glint in his bright eyes. 

“I don’t know how you managed that. But I’m impressed.” he juts out a hand that Jaskier takes in a daze, shaking before stepping back to add some distance between them, dissipating the oddly friendly energy.

“Good luck tomorrow.” he tacks on, gruffly, before pulling a 180 and high-tailing it away. 

“You too,” he calls out belatedly, fully aware that the fastly-retreating man couldn’t possibly hear him. Luckily, he doesn’t have to dwell on… whatever that was, instead turning to hug Ciri, who successfully dethroned Geralt as technical royalty.  
As they leave the tent skipping, arm-in-arm, Jaskier wonders, vaguely, what Triss will have to say about all this.

\------------------------------

Turns out, Triss has a lot to say about it.

“Oh, wow, so he congratulated you, shook your hand, and wished you luck for tomorrow. Now, if only someone had told you that he wasn’t out to get you. If only someone had told you that, hey, Geralt’s probably a really nice guy. If only someone had--”

“Got it, Triss! I’m a right wanker, you told me so, Geralt isn’t as bad as I thought.” he laughs, dodging the throw pillows his flatmate is currently hurling at him. 

“I’m sorry, repeat that second to last bit? I didn’t quite hear you,” she demands, wielding a cushion above her head in what Jaskier knows is a very real and present threat.

“You were right, Triss, completely, totally right and I was a fool, a damn fool, who will never again question your unsurpassable wisdom and judgment,” Jaskier vows, lacing his hands together in penance. Triss ponders his atonement for a minute before wailing down on his head with her harmless weapon, anyway, before the two fall back onto the couch in a fit of giggles.

“Sooo,” Triss drawls out, after a minute.

“So?” Jaskier mirrors her in response.

“Let’s talk about what Geralt’s hands feel like--”

“Oi! Let’s not, thanks. I’d really rather keep down my dinner.”

\------------------------------

The next morning, Jaskier drinks three cups of coffee before leaving. 

His jitters singlehandedly carry him to the Bake Off tent, where Cirilla is waiting to ramble his ear off, explaining her complicated plans for her showstopper.  
He nods along when prompted, laughing when appropriate, etc until they split to take their places at their respective places. Jaskier quiets down significantly upon seeing Geralt, his white hair tied back, watching Jaskier and Cirilla with a plaintive but amused expression. Jaskier nods a tentative hello to him before pointedly fixing his gaze on something decidedly not Geralt or his stupid, endearing hairstyle. Jaskier cannot handle any more distractions today, he needs to focus if he’s going to pull off the task of a highly-decorative catalog of Jodenkoek, a form of Dutch shortbread. 

No matter how polished or pristine his bakes may (or, realistically, may not) be, Jaskier is nothing if not creative. 

That is why, in his opinion, it is perfectly reasonable for him to set aside a majority of his time for decoration.

The others, very vocally, do not agree.

“Why in the ever-loving fuck would you be baking your biscuits already? There’s still an hour and a half.” Yennefer argues, eyebrows furrowed as she watches the young man close his oven door without blinking an eye.

“Are you sure that’s good time-management, Julian?” Cirilla attempts, kindly. 

“Ciri, I promise, I’ve practiced this five times this week. They turned out great in rehearsal, so I’m not about to change any strategies for the real deal. Fret not about me, my dear, you couldn’t get rid of me this week even if you wanted to.” he winks, whipping his buttercream. 

Jaskier absolutely does not note the resounding absence of Geralt’s opinion. 

Again, just to repeat: Jaskier absolutely does not look up to gauge his reactions, only to pause his whisking completely at the frenzied sight of Geralt’s station. 

Matt is already there, belligerently questioning his decisions until Geralt harshly places his hands against the counter, taking a centering breath. 

He seems awfully pressed for time. He’s struggling. He’s in trouble.

Jaskier should be real fucking chuffed about this. He should be doing a little jig to show how glad he is.  
He is glad, isn’t he? Shit. If he was, his feet wouldn’t be carrying him over, as if they have a mind of their own. Settling behind a station that decidedly is not the one he should currently be at, Jaskier clears his throat, saddling up next to who he can longer even pretend to call his rival.

“Where do you need me?” he asks, tucking his washcloth into his apron. Geralt turns, looking at him with an indiscernible expression, mouth slightly agape as if he can’t believe Jaskier, of all people, would be coming to his aid. Rightfully so. Jaskier himself can barely believe it.

“I’m only going to ask this one more time, Geralt, where do you need me?”  
This seems to knock the taller man out of his stupor and he efficiently begins delegating some of the remaining workload to Jaskier, kicking it into high gear in hopes of finishing in time. 

“What about your batch?” Geralt asks when Jaskier starts loading his piping bags for him. 

“I’ll have time.” Correction: he hopes he’ll have time. He does not know at all for certain that he’ll have enough time. So why isn’t he leaving, properly abandoning Geralt and sealing his fate? 

Jaskier starts piping the biscuit borders.

Geralt, eventually, does shoo Jaskier back to his own station for fear of the impending “10-minute” warning. His hands, accordingly, move faster than he’s ever seen them move before. He knows that Triss would kill him if, after all the icing splattered on their ceiling, Jaskier went home on biscuit week. 

By the time the classic “Bakers, your time is up!” announcement rings through the tent, Jaskier’s Jodenkoeks are resting neatly on his tray. It takes a moment for him to gather enough courage to look at Geralt’s. When he finally does, a wave of relief rushes over him at the finished product. And, when Geralt looks back at him, it’s with a look of pure gratitude that makes Jaskier want to tear his hair out. 

Ciri ends up winning Star Baker. She cries tears of joy on Jaskier’s shoulder.

The girl who came last in technical, Mari something-or-other, is sent home. 

Jaskier meets Geralt’s eye from a few stools down. For a minute, he’s not entirely sure he’s breathing. Geralt smiles at him. Jaskier feels nauseous. 

On the way out, they walk together. 

“Are you going to rant about the difference between Dutch and Danish now?”  
Jaskier scoffs, not nearly as mean as he wishes it sounded. 

“You really do have so much to learn, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one goes out to AmyIsARealPhelps, who specifically said they'd like to see Jaskier make a fundamental error and still end up with a successful bake. 
> 
> the formatting on this chapter is kinda ugly, i'm still trying to figure out how different spacing styles look and i haven't gotten the hang of it, yet! 
> 
> if you liked this chapter, consider leaving a comment saying so! reading your comments on the first chapter made me so, so happy and it really boosted my writing motivation! 🥰
> 
> also, a question to you all: i've been doing a lot of research to try and set challenges that haven't already been on Bake Off, but is it alright if i happen to slip up once or twice? i can't find any real way of weeding through the complete history of signatures, technicals, and showstoppers.


	3. The Humours Of Whiskey (AKA: Dessert Week)

Regardless of how absent his parents were, Jaskier had, ironically, a somewhat sheltered childhood. 

Sure, he frolicked in the fields and braided flowers into his neighbor’s hair, but his media consumption was… to put it lightly, _lacking._

That is why, when the signature challenge of Dessert Week is announced, Jaskier spent over an hour researching _what the fuck a Turkish Delight is._

Logically, Jaskier knows Narnia didn’t _invent_ Turkish Delights, but they surely must’ve popularized it, as he seemed to be the only person in the tent who wasn’t familiar with them. Nonetheless, his drive to stay forced him out of his comfort zone. He was no longer operating out of a place of spite, unfortunately. Even he could recognize that the reason he wanted to stay no longer involved proving himself to Geralt, though that was still an added bonus. Jaskier begrudgingly found that he actually quite liked it at the tent. 

Ciri’s a ray of sunshine whose boundless energy is the only one to rival Jaskier’s own, endless jittering. 

Yennefer was still a bitch, and Jaskier kind of loved her for it.

And Geralt…

Geralt was there too. 

And that was all Jaskier had to say on _that_ matter.

The bakers were awarded three and a half hours for their signature.

Jaskier was sure he would need every last second of it. 

He hadn’t bitten his nails in years, but as Noel and Matt did their countdown, Jaskier’s fingers resembled reddened nubs. Fake it until you make it, right? That’s what’s gotten Jaskier through many a challenge in the past.

“Psst,” Jaskier calls out in front of him, sticking a hesitant thermometer into his saucepan.

Geralt turns, offering nothing but an inquisitive brow. Jaskier isn’t sure why his stomach clenches at the sight.  
  
“Do you know what this is? I never watched The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe so I don’t fully know what fresh hell this is meant to turn into.” 

This time, Jaskier earns a blank stare as Geralt looks at him directly. 

“I don’t think we’re meant to help each other. We’re competition, after all.”

Jaskier can’t help but drop his jaw at the audacity, the nerve, the disrespect and disregard of his--- _Oh._

If Geralt’s lips hadn’t slightly quirked up in the corners, Jaskier very well might have had a tantrum on national television. 

“You-- that is _so_ not funny, Geralt!” Jaskier throws a washcloth squarely at Geralt’s chuckling chest, pointedly ignoring the heat rising to his cheeks. If anyone dared to ask, he’d swear it was out of embarrassment and _absolutely_ _nothing_ _else_.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. What are you having trouble with?” Geralt amends quietly, stepping closer to Jaskier’s station as he returns the projectile towel. 

“What temperature are you aiming for with your syrup?” Jaskier frowns at his thermometer, puzzled. Geralt cranes his head to look at the numbers displayed before offering a contemplative hum that Jaskier tells himself he _doesn’t_ feel in his toes. 

“I’m going for 115. But honestly, the most important part is the cooling time. Leave it out for as long as you can.” Geralt posits, hesitating for a moment before he leans closer and drops his voice lower, conspiratory. “Don’t put it in the refrigerator.”

Jaskier’s eyes shoot up to his, incredulously.   
  
“What?”

Geralt sighs and glances, presumably checking for lingering cameramen, before looking back at Jaskier. 

_Why does he insist on having such intense eye contact when he talks to people?_

“None of these are going to be proper Turkish Delights. You’re meant to leave them overnight. But, for here.. Leave them on your counter. Cover them in icing sugar. Brush the excess off when you plate them. That’s your best chance at achieving a decent texture. A lot of people here are going to shove ‘em in the freezer, and they’re going to fumble. Just… trust me.” Geralt appears to have mentally declared that the end of the conversation as he swiftly returns to his own station immediately thereafter. 

Jaskier can do nothing but blink at Geralt’s back for a minute, realizing that’s by far the greatest amount of words he’s ever heard the man say at one time.

Without putting much thought into why, Jaskier trusts Geralty’s advice.

The Turkish Delights, generously coated in icing sugar, stay on his counter and out of the fridge, just as Geralt’s stay on his.

In the end, they both receive trepidatious praise in their critiques, as many of the others do, in fact, present rock-solid delights. 

As filming cuts, Jaskier thanks Geralt with a nondescript handshake before they head to get water together. 

“Can we even call that one a Signature Bake? There was no baking involved.” Jaskier prattles away as they walk.

Geralt’s laugh is subtle, a brief exhale of air that Jaskier would’ve missed had he not been so keenly focused on the other man’s reactions.

He hates how he immediately wants to hear it again. 

* * *

“Today, Paul and Prue would love for you to make a dozen Vatrushka, an Eastern European, yeasted dessert.”

“You have four hours to complete your technical challenge.”

“On your mark,”

“Get set,”

“Bake!” Noel and Matt announce in unison as Jaskier unveils his technical basket, a pit forming in his stomach.

The pit deepens as Jaskier peruses the criminally-vague instructions, such as _“make the dough”,_ _“make the cheese filling”, “bake”._

Jaskier needs a miracle for this to turn out well. He refuses to ask Geralt for any additional help. Geralt saved him just that morning, which fulfilled any perceived debt he had to Jaskier for last week. This has to be all Jaskier. He has to find a way to make this work. 

That being said, he can’t help but glance at his neighboring stations from time to time. 

_This is basically a cheese danish,_ he tells himself, _it’ll be easy; really, it’s a cinch_.

It isn’t a cinch.

The only comfort he finds is the knowledge that at least he isn’t the poor girl up front who, judging by the outcry and clatter against the carpet, dropped her pastries as she was taking them out of the oven. She was currently having a minor burn tended to by the medics and Jaskier felt a bit guilty at the relief that flooded through him at the idea he wouldn’t be last.

When the judges return to judge the line of Vatrushka, he almost wishes the bitch that is Karma would rear her ugly head and make Jaskier last for his selfishness. 

She doesn’t. 

Jaskier’s guilt is relieved when the burned baker actually places higher than him, the two of them comfortably resting at 6th and 5th, respectively. All the inner moral debate kept Jaskier distracted enough to not notice when Geralt’s name was announced before his. Two before his, in fact.

Geralt came in 8th. 

Once Jaskier realizes, a deep panic sets in and his head whips to the left. 

Why was _he_ the one panicking? 

Geralt looks just slightly perturbed, baffling Jaskier enough into approaching him. 

“Rough break,” he offers, raising a hand in aims to give Geralt a consoling pat on the back, leaving it to hover for a minute before ultimately letting it drop to his side. This close, Jaskier can see a furrow in Geralt’s brow that he hadn’t previously noticed. In response to Jaskier’s awkward antics, the furrow seems to soothe a bit as Geralt sighs and tilts his head back.

“Gods, I need a drink,” he adds, tiredly.

Jaskier perks up and smiles easily, nudging at Geralt with his elbow.

“Okay. Let’s go get a drink.”

Geralt abruptly snaps his gaze to Jaskier.   
  
“I’m sorry?” he inquires, though Jaskier’s excitement and adrenaline seem far too intense for any objection Geralt even considers offering.

“I mean it! Let’s go get a drink. Today sucked!” Jaskier says, though he says it with a beaming smile that Geralt helplessly fights to melt at. 

“Is that even allowed?” Geralt teases, raising an eyebrow that Jaskier scoffs at as he drags Geralt near the exit of the tent.

“Who cares?”

* * *

To be fair, Geralt does offer Jaskier a ride to the nearest pub. 

But the honest truth is that Jaskier was already losing some of his nerve and he knew that being in such a closely confined area with Geralt would psyche him out a bit more. He needed to drive himself. He needed to make a phone call.

It takes three whole rings for Triss to pick up. 

_“You’re not eliminated already, are you? Don’t you have a whole second day to muck up?”_

“First of all, rude and unnecessary. But we’ll unpack that later. I need a pep talk.” he says, placing his phone on the seat next to him as he buckles his seat belt and pulls onto the street. 

A brief shuffle is heard as Triss, assumedly, adjusts her sitting situation to better focus on the matter at hand. 

_“Alright, I’m listening. Shoot.”_

Jaskier takes a deep breath to center himself before forcing the words out of his mouth. 

“I’m-getting-a-drink-with-Geralt,” he says in one rushed breath, bracing himself preemptively for the harsh shriek that Triss predictably follows up with. 

“ _You’re what?! Repeat that for me, I’m nearly positive I misheard you there.”_

Jaskier groans and throws his head back as he pauses at a red traffic light.

“You heard me just fine and you know it, Triss, now help me!”

_“I don’t get why I’m needed here. If this is a date, you have more than enough charm to rely on. If you’re just friends going for some stress-relief, you’ve never had problems making casual conversation before. Unless…”_ Jaskier winces, knowing the direction Triss is about to veer towards. _“The only reason I can think you’d need a pep talk for is… you want this to be a date but you’re unsure if it is.”_

Jaskier’s face sets itself ablaze as he presses on the gas. 

“Absolutely not. I have no idea why I called you, we’re just two acquaintances that need a drink, that’s all. We’re just… Coexisting at the same pub. That’s all.” 

_“Jas, you always spend far too much time in the denial stage. You know that, right?”_

In lieu of a reply, Jaskier hangs up on her.

The pub is less lively than Jaskier anticipated when he enters, quickly able to find and snatch up a free stool. 

What’s the protocol here? Should he order for Geralt? Should he wait until Geralt gets here before ordering for himself? Where _is_ Geralt anyway? What’s taking him so long? Maybe he decided not to come and just drove straight home. Maybe an emergency came up and Geralt couldn’t tell Jaskier. I mean, they hadn’t exchanged contact information, after all. Maybe---

“Hey,” a deep grumble rouses Jaskier out of his thoughts. Geralt slides into the stool next to him with ease, as if it was nothing. 

_Maybe for him, it IS nothing_ , Jaskier reminds himself.

“Hi!” he responds, too late and too loud. Geralt only smiles a little in return, which eases some of Jaskier’s stress. 

“So,” he soldiers on, mindful of his volume. “What are you drinking tonight? My treat.” 

* * *

Turns out, when offered enough free whiskey, Geralt can be a bit talkative.

Jaskier’s equally shocked and delighted.

“And when Paul said my Week One showstopper looked a bit too camp, I had to restrain myself from resorting to violence.” he laments, nursing his glass gently, in perfect opposition to Jaskier’s sudden and brash laugh. 

“Geralt! That’s horrible, wishing physical harm upon our dear judge, no matter how deserving he may be!”

“Can I just say, Julian, it wasn’t--”

“Jaskier.” he cuts in, “Call me Jaskier. It’s… a nickname of sorts.” he elaborates when Geralt looks at him, confused. It takes a second before Geralt nods and continues.

“Well, _Jaskier_ ,” he says, testing the name on his tongue, “It wasn’t the first nor last time I’ve wished physical harm upon Paul Hollywood.” 

And if Geralt’s smile turns a bit broader when Jaskier cackles, then that’s between the two of them. 

* * *

Everything feels a bit too bright and a bit too loud once Jaskier arrives at the tent in the morning.

He wonders, just for a second, if they’d let him bake with his sunglasses on. 

When he sees Geralt file into his spot, Jaskier resents him a little for how chipper and awake he looks. Oh, how the turntables or whatever the saying is.  
  
Gods, Jaskier should _really_ be able to hold his liquor better by now. 

The only thing on his mind as the presenters introduce the showstopper is:

_What kind of sick joke are the judges playing at here?_

Baked Alaska. 

Why would they reassign _Baked_ _Alaska_?

Jaskier is convinced the producers must’ve whispered something into Paul and Prue’s ears, asking for the highest possible chance of calamity. Until this morning, he’d thought himself fully prepared for this monumental task. Until his hangover hit him like a tonne of bricks and Jaskier started to want nothing at all to do with ice cream and meringue. 

That bastard, Geralt. Maybe this was all some thoroughly thought-out form of sabotage. 

_Of course it wasn't sabotage._

He knows this, and yet he feels something entirely different as every whir of his stand mixer increases the pounding in his head. When Matt drags the judges over for their cursory walkthrough, Jaskier barely musters up enough energy to explain his concept, based on the myth of Hades and Persephone, a pomegranate liqueur sorbet resting between layers of blackberry sponge. He sounds off his explanation flatly, as though reciting something dreadfully boring.

"Is all well with you today, Julian? You look a tad pale."

She means well, Jaskier _knows_ she means well. 

"Oh, I'm just peachy, Prue. Now if you'll all be kind enough to excuse me," he replies sardonically, heading to his freezer to both check on his ice cream and shove his head into the cold for a few blissfully silent seconds. Part of him hopes he could shrink himself and stay in this freezer for the rest of the day. 

* * *

Against all odds, Jaskier's Baked Alaska is a smash hit. It all goes rather swimmingly, actually. Most bakers have unprecedented success.

Jaskier's headache has yet to subside. 

He feels horrible for whoever's announced as Star Baker and the newly eliminated. Jaskier's eyes stay wrenched shut for the entirety of the week's closing ceremonies, resting his head against Ciri's soft shoulder. Ignoring the commotion, Jaskier stands up, squints a sliver of his eyes open, and accepts whatever hugs are offered his way, as is typical of each weekend's conclusion.

When he finally gathers the strength to open his eyes fully, he finds Geralt standing before him, looking down at him in thinly veiled amusement. 

"Next time, we aren't going drinking until the baking actually ends," he demands, shoving a pointed finger into Geralt's chest for emphasis. He slips his sunglasses back on, protectively, while Geralt merely laughs. 

"Alright," he concedes, following Jaskier on his route out. "Next time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is dedicated to those Bake Off episodes that just don't make all that much sense when you really stop to think about them (:
> 
> Welcome back if there are any readers still here! Sorry for the sudden hiatus, I've been feeling a little angsty recently and I didn't want that to bleed into this chapter since I knew I wanted it to be more fluff-orientated. Though, as I'm sure you'll all pick up on, the ending was a bit rushed.
> 
> BUT I recently got a tiny burst of inspiration, so here's a new chapter, weeks after it was meant to be published!
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and, as always, please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed it! They always make my day (':
> 
> Hopefully, I'll be back with more for you all soon!
> 
> ps: jaskier's showstopper is me self-indulgently thinking about a hades & persephone geraskier au


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